NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2013 - Page 22

I tried them on and had to agree:
“OK, I’ll take these. How much? Hmm,
just five dollars, wow… cool.”
Randy joked;
“I can hear Miles now when he peeps
you in those, he’s gonna say fuck you
Bobby.”
“Yeah man you got that right… Haha.”
We both knew Miles to be a fashion
fiend so we made it a point to dress to
impress. Although Randy could have
easily been mistaken for El Debarge,
he never relied solely on his handsome
looks. If he wore jeans they would
be contrasted with a stylish jacket.
I too strived to maintain a ten on the
cool clothing meter as Miles always
noticed and would comment. During
the walk up, we anticipated passing
by a couple electronic shops where we
could compare prices for the new Sony
Walkman cassette tape players released
earlier that year. At 59th Street halfway
around the circle counterclockwise,
we briefly enjoyed the green relief
provided by the southwest periphery
of Central Park. We resisted its allure,
sauntering past Lincoln Center and
then continuing almost twenty blocks
up the progressively more upscale
Broadway. We eventually hit 77th
Street and walked over through the
more quiet affluent residential area
just past West End Avenue to arrive at
Miles’ brownstone just before dusk.
I rang the bell and we soon heard Judy’s
Australian accent inquiring;
20
“Who is it?”
BRN-FALL-2013.indb 20
“It’s Randy and Bobby,” we said
respectively. Curiously, she didn’t open
the door, but instead asked:
“What do you guys want?”
Surprised by her question, I explained;
“Miles invited us for fish dinner with Jack.”
She seemed completely confused as we
heard her hollering back up to Miles;
“It’s Bobby and Randy.”
“Who?” Miles asked again in the
background with that gravely voice of
The Godfather.
Judy had now cracked the door open
and told us:
“Look guys, I think Miles forgot about
your dinner plans. He’s pretty high
right now and not in his right mind…
so this may not be a good time. Why
don’t you call back later and see how
he’s feeling.”
This was the first time I had heard
anything about Miles getting high.
We looked at each other with the
question in our eyes, “high on what?”
If she had said he was drunk, we’d
know it was the Heineken or Jack
Daniels. I thought, Hmmm…. I’ve
never smelled marijuana here and heroin
would have made him more mellow.
His apparent agitation and paranoia
about who was there indicated some
kind of speedy drug. I then realized that
maybe I had been a little naïve about
things. I knew that Miles had not
recorded music in seven years, but had
no idea of his lifestyle or activities
during that reclusive period. Was it
drugs that had won out over his horn?
I had heard fragmented stories of his
two victories over heroin addiction
when he was younger, but had not seen
any evidence of abuse so far during
our time with him. One of my older
cousin’s had overdosed on cocaine
when I was 16-years-old, so I knew a
little bit about its hyper-vigilant effect
and suspected this to be Miles’ current
demon. So, I said to Judy:
“Look, Miles did invite us, or else we
wouldn’t be here… so if he wants to
cancel dinner, why don’t we let him
make that decision himself.”
She grimaced as Miles again screamed
from the recessed ledge at the top of
that long and narrow staircase:
“Judy, I said who the fuck is it you
talkin to?”
Before she could answer him, we heard
a loud thud followed by the ominous
sound of wooden stairs brutally
meeting body part. My subconscious
photographed each slow motion flicker
indelibly emblazing each fractal frame
of Miles’ downward tumble… down
to an end I could not imagine. Yet,
in real time, it happened so fast that
only our wide eyes and open mouths
could respond as gravity made him a
human avalanche. In a surreal finale,
his body violently hit the short wall
at the bottom, bouncing off to land—
eerily unconscious. The deafening
silence amplified my horrified gasp
into a well-projected stage whisper.
Miles lay there in stillness with blood
on his head and his right hand still
clasping his trusted 22-caliber pistol.
9/13/13 12:47 AM